


Helpless (clinging to a little bit of spine)

by BansheeLydia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5152532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BansheeLydia/pseuds/BansheeLydia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the teen wolf bingo. </p>
<p>Braeden’s lived a life as rough and tumultuous as Marin’s own and it’s a relief, like the first lungful of fresh, rain touched air after a heat wave, to find solace in someone who understands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helpless (clinging to a little bit of spine)

Everything hurts.

Marin doesn’t know how bad the damage is; she’s been losing time intermittently since the alpha attacked her. A rival pack, believing Derek and Scott both being alphas to be a weakness. Trying to take advantage of it with an attack, an attempt to claim Beacon Hills as their territory. Typical werewolves: always posturing.

They hadn’t counted on the pack, though. The attack had been quick and brutal, but over fast, and Marin had thought it was done with. And then the alpha attacked and she was the closest, taking the worst of it.

“You’re going to be okay.” Her brother’s voice is quiet and gentle, soothing. He’s healing her, but it’s going to take a lot of magic and some time. 

“How bad is it?” Alan doesn’t answer and she winces through a laugh. “That grim, hm?”

“Just rest,” he encourages.

She tries her best, but her body feels like it’s on fire. The worst of it is the pain in her ribs where the alpha’s claws dug in deep and ripped at the vulnerable flesh like knives through butter. 

She drifts again, fading out and back into consciousness like a rippling wave. When her eyelids flutter open, Alan’s still there, still working. She feels mostly numb now. 

“This is going to hurt,” he warns. 

“I’m sure I’ve been through worse.” She tries to keep her tone light, but it’s the truth. She’d had her eyes opened up to the brutality of the world at the tender age of fifteen. 

He offers a small, sad smile and rubs a salve against her wounds. She doesn’t know what it is, though it reeks of magic, but she _screams_ with the agony of it, whole side lit up like it’s on fire. She arches off the table and Alan’s face tightens, his mouth pinched as he continues to rub the salve in, pushing it into the deep wounds. She’s sobbing by the time he finishes and he looks up, an apology in his eyes. 

“All done.” He stands, wipes his hands on a cloth. “Rest.” 

Alan presses a kiss to her forehead and she manages a weak smile, watching as he leaves. She closes her eyes, tries to ignore the sting in her side, and within minutes, she’s out again.

She sleeps a lot over the next few days. She dreams of her childhood; of running through trees with her big brother, laughing and playing. She dreams about learning of her heritage, pouring over books of spells, trying to soak in all the knowledge she can. Her mind plays her these faded memories over and over; the moment her hero worship of Alan shattered, the day they drifted apart...and how a pack of teenagers were what brought them back together.

She’s healing, Alan’s magic working well. She gets visits, from Scott, Derek and Stiles mostly. Most of the time, though, it’s just Alan. He reads to her, or just talks to her about his work, or listens to the tales she has to tell him. They don’t talk about the past but that’s okay, they have plenty of time to do that, once they’ve both healed from the still raw wounds of their childhood.

There’s one person she longs to see, but it isn’t until a week later that Braeden slips silently through the door. Quiet as ever, Marin doesn’t realize she’s there until she turns her head to find the mercenary gazing at her.

“Hey,” she manages a soft smile.

Braeden approaches; she’s limping slightly and there’s a bandage around her bicep, but other than that, she looks okay and relief pulses through Marin. 

“I just wanted to check on you,” Braeden says, sinking down into the chair next to Marin’s bed. 

“I’m okay. I’m healing.”

Braeden’s dark eyes sweep over her, cataloguing her slowly healing injuries, and her mouth tightens. She reaches out, grips Marin’s hand, and it’s only at times like this, when it’s quiet and dark and they’re alone, as if in their own secret kind of heaven, that Braeden shows any vulnerability. She softens just as Marin does, masks dropping as they reconnect in the simplest but most beautiful way possible: with gentle smiles, clasped hands and quiet, shared breaths.

“You’re quiet,” Marin says after a while. 

It’s not strictly unusual; sometimes, they like to just lie together, quiet and comfortable. But often, Braeden will tell Marin all about the things she’s done, exciting stories about people she’s saved, and people she’s killed. Braeden’s lived a life as rough and tumultuous as Marin’s own and it’s a relief, like the first lungful of fresh, rain touched air after a heat wave, to find solace in someone who understands.

“I almost lost you.” Braeden’s voice is quiet but raw, digging at the edges of the ache in Marin’s chest.

“But you didn’t,” she assures her. “I’m going to be okay.”

“You just hit the ground and there was so much blood. I almost lost you, Marin. And I couldn’t have saved you.”

“I don’t need you to. I’m strong enough to save myself.”

Braeden’s brow furrows. “You don’t always have to.”

“Maybe you should take some of your own advice,” Marin counters gently. 

At that, a small smile touches Braeden’s mouth and she concedes with a little nod. She looks down at their joined hands, throat working as she swallows, long scars catching the dim light coming from the lamp on the nightstand.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Marin assures her.

It’s the one promise they can give to each other: that they won’t leave. Because they’ve both spent their lives running, disappearing like smoke, never staying in one place for too long. But they’re here now, they have ties to Beacon Hills and obligations to the people they’ve sworn to protect, to the likes of Scott McCall and Derek Hale who are so fundamentally good in a way neither of them can truthfully claim to be. 

They can’t promise to not die, or get hurt. They can’t promise that their feelings for one another will always be enough and they can’t promise that nothing will ever tear them apart, because the life they live isn’t made for promises like that. But they can promise to stay while they can.

Braeden smiles and dips her head, dark curls brushing the bed as she kisses Marin’s knuckles. They don’t say the three words that have filled the void in their hearts.

They never need to.

**Author's Note:**

> kirasmalydia.tumblr.com - come say hi? :)


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